


A Fly on the Wall

by SoDoLaFaMiDoRe



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I'm too tired to think of more tags sorry but I think that pretty much covers it, If you have a phobia of bugs don't read, M/M, Transformation, Wheeljack messes up through SCIENCE!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 12:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9385484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoDoLaFaMiDoRe/pseuds/SoDoLaFaMiDoRe
Summary: A teleport chamber gone wrong with an organic insect, Wheeljack's own frame is turning against him!





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: THERE WILL BE FLIES IN THIS. CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED, NOBODY ASK "WHY WAS THERE AN ICKY BUG IN THIS?"
> 
> Okay besides that I hope you enjoy! I'm trying out Scriverner so I decided to finish and polish this a little in the software.

Add in more details, really get into Ratchet and Wheeljack, make sure it's grossly detailed depictions of what turning organic would be like for a robot

The transformations, at first, had been so subtle Wheeljack hadn’t realized something was going wrong with his frame. The first teleport with a living subject, himself, had gone fantastically as planned. A rare one for the engineer, but not a gift he was going to question too often. As the humans said, “Every dog has its day.”

But something had been going wrong. At first, he’d just chalked it up to some chemical spill or vapor, making sure to scrub his plating extra well in a hope to free him from the burning itch spreading across his body. It wasn’t working. He’d thought of taking it to Ratchet, as no matter how much the medic had grumbled about some medical code or another, on Earth they didn’t have that luxury and Swoop and First Aid were still very inexperienced.

But his mate had been so busy and stressed out lately, why bother him over a little itch? Wheeljack had his own basic medical training, this must just be a nanite infection or some other little accident. A chemical spill or some other little worry. However, looking at his plating under a microscope was not proving to be a good idea. He had some odd bumps pushing at his plating, as if something had dented it from underneath. Pressing at one, he debated how to conduct further testing. He’d never had an injury like this before.

Orns passed, and the situation only grew stranger. Wheeljack had taken to meticulously checking and logging any changes to his frame in the lab, in an attempt to figure out what was happening. His nanites had been seemingly growing sluggish, his bright whites and vivid reds fading significantly in only three orns. He debated telling his conjux, keeping the bond muted in an attempt to hide the fear. This had to be some effect from the teleport, some unforeseen consequence his data hadn’t informed him the potential for.

He grew more secluded in his lab as his spark tightened in ever-increasing panic. His optics had been changing, the glass beginning to develop microfine cracks in a strangely uniform octagonal pattern. The bumps on his plating began pushing through fine black hairs that looked similar to the spiny spikes of an insect. He’d managed to grab enough cubes on an off-hour that they could last him a few weeks, just enough time to figure out what was happening to his frame and a way to reserve it.

Ratchet had grown worried, considering Wheeljack hadn’t left his lab in orns. He’d come in to check on the other, and while Wheeljack had managed to keep the worst of his “condition,” hidden from the other; Ratchet had his own suspicions. Wheeljack finally managed to run some tests on his CNA, and as he managed to get a read on it he realized it had been changed. There was an unknown element, and even with only basic information at his disposal he realized it was definitely organic.

Stilling, his helmlights flashed as he realized just what had happened. Playing back his memories of the teleport, his memory files focused on a sound his audials had dismissed at the time, the buzzing of a common housefly within the chamber. The realization hit him like a blaster bolt to the spark. Something must have become scrambled in the teleportation process. And now he was beginning to turn into one of the organics.

He resisted the urge to purge his tanks into his blastmask. Remembering the times he had seen the little organic bugs, especially having to help Hound pluck some out of his plating, his optics widened in shock. Reaching back to some of the large dents that were coming out his back, he let out a choked sob as he felt a sharp point coming out of one of the bumps. How could he look his conjux in the face and tell him what had happened? He felt guilty enough with constantly needing to be put back together, Ratchet didn’t need this burden on top of everything else.

His transformation seemed to only hasten as the orns went on, his frame turning less mech and more fly. His optics were beginning to bulge from his helm, strange bumps forming on his forehelm as his legs shifted. He’d been thrown off-balance more than once from a painful crunch as the joints of his legs shifted.

Even with the two earth weeks he had to prepare what he was going to say thanks to the slow start to the disease, Wheeljack still wasn’t ready for the difficult conversation that occurred when he realized he could no longer hide his condition from his conjux. The carefully prepared speech he’d rehearsed in an attempt not to scare the other died on his glossa when the medic nearly threw the door off his track, worry and panic clear in the lines of his faceplates. Wheeljack noted the stress-lines on his faceplates, and guilt overwhelmed him as he realized that he probably put most of them there over the past two weeks.

Ratchet, for his part, didn’t run screaming in terror. The medic had seen far too much over the course of the war to run like a sparkling. He did drop the cube of warmed energon he’d brought in shock, however; splattering his legs with the precious fuel.

“Ratchet, I can explain.”

“Wheeljack, what did you do?” Ratchet’s optics scanned his frame, taking in the mutations. His mate’s optics were splintered into a million little hexagons, the glass bulging unnaturally. He had longer growths coming out of his back now, the limbs twitching. They were apparently going to be a third pair of legs, his own servos having begun the process as well. The thick spiny hairs along his plating had grown, leaving jagged points in his plating as Wheeljack attempted to make himself as nonthreatening as possible.

Ratchet stepped closer, reaching out to touch as Wheeljack froze. “Wheeljack,” it was rare to see the famous medic at a loss for words, but here he was, unable to process the horrid sight in front of him. “Wheeljack, are you alright? Does it hurt?” He had no idea where to start, and Wheeljack could see he was fighting the medical protocols that were surfacing to make sure he was in charge of his coding.

Leaning into the touch, Wheeljack shook his helm, the small antennae that had been sprouting from his forehelm brushing the medic’s wristguard. “No, I, it itches and burns at some points, and there is pain, but I don’t think there’s much we can do to help it.” He avoided the instinct to smooth things over for his mate. Ratchet needed honesty in this, even if he was unable to fully explain everything that was happening. A pulse of love and concern pressed at his side of the bond, and Wheeljack dropped the block to properly reciprocate his own affection.

Ratchet began checking the rest of his plating more clinically, the engineer not protesting as he checked the growing points that Wheeljack’s digits were fusing into; the growths on his back, and touching the hairs in an attempt to better comprehend. The silence between them was unbearable, but Wheeljack was at a loss for words and it was clear Ratchet was still processing his transformation.

“How?”

“An organic insect, I think it was Musca domestica, it was in the teleport chamber with me when I tried teleporting myself.” Wheeljack hadn’t realized until he noticed the look Ratchet shot him, but his voice was much different now. It sounded as if he’d blown the circuits, each word more strangled than the last. He averted Ratchet’s optics as well as he could, considering his field of view was increasing, shame welling up in his spark. How many times had Ratchet put him together after a lab accident? This time, the situation felt hopeless and helpless. Not even Ratchet’s legendary skills could hope to fix this.

“Should I tell Prime? Or Perceptor? One of them must be able to come up with something!” Ratchet tried to keep the break out of his voice, but even he couldn’t fully stop the static tinging his words as his field roiled with hundreds of emotions.

“No! Nobody needs to-!” Wheeljack’s vocoder cut out, a look of shock flaring on the other’s alien features. He was clearly making attempts to speak, but all that came out were binary clicks at best. Ratchet held onto his servos as Wheeljack began to shake, pulling the other closer and holding him tight. He wasn’t going to lie and try to tell Wheeljack everything would be okay, it wasn’t in his nature. But in his processor, Ratchet made a vow to do whatever it would take to fix this.

\----

In only a few days Wheeljack’s changes had exponentially grown. The growths on his backplates were now fully functioning limbs, and while he attempted to communicate through writing, his processor seemed to be slipping into a fog. His attempts at writing were messy and often stopping halfway through, but he did manage to shakily pen the glyphs for “I love you” before one of the lapses set in.

It broke Ratchet’s spark, and while he wanted to be angry at his sparkmate, ‘What were you thinking testing this on yourself? Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” He also didn’t want to burden his conjux with how he felt. Ratchet had all the time in the world to scold Wheeljack after they fixed this. He’d been keeping scans running on his mate’s frame, even though the organic material would often mess with the signals and what data he could glean.

Wheeljack was mostly relying on the bond now to keep calm, but Ratchet could feel where he was fraying at the edges. His pulses of affection were met with much duller responses, and he could feel the melancholy reaching in. Even Ratchet’s attempts to keep the other calm were starting to fail.

Every waking moment he didn’t spend in the medbay or reassuring his conjux Ratchet was busy studying everything he could until his processor ached. His optics felt as if they were pounding in his helm and he ached down to the struts due to insufficient recharge. But he had to try, every moment wasted was another moment Wheeljack could lose his cure. Ratchet had needed to start locking Wheeljack in his lab as the engineer continued to lose his processing powers to the organic instincts.

The medic didn’t want to admit, even to himself, but every plan was seeming hopeless. ‘If only we had that Primus-forsaken organic, it would give us more options.’

\--—

Another orn, another fruitless search for information that could hopefully shine some light on a cure for Wheeljack’s problem. Ratchet was truly at his wits end, his processor in a state of constant aching as he mulled over the problem, even in recharge. Perceptor was in the lab with him, offering to share because Ratchet lied and said Wheeljack had spilled chemicals in his lab.

“Ratchet, could you come here? I found the most interesting specimen in my lab today.” Perceptor was folded into his alt mode, staring intently at a small jar. While most mecha had seen the harried look on Ratchet’s face as he’d consulted his surviving textbooks and any scrap of information they had on DNA, CNA, or flies through human databases; they didn’t want to face the wrath of the Hatchet by questioning him.

Standing, Ratchet felt his spine pop as he shambled over to the microscope, knee joint protesting due to poor fluid pressure in the hydraulics. Standing shakily next to the other, Ratchet noted that in a jar was a common fly walking along the bottom. It seemed different than others he had noticed in his studies, but Ratchet couldn’t put his servo on why.

“What’s the matter Perceptor?”

“This fly looks like none I’ve ever seen before! Why, when I analyzed it with laser-induced breakdown spectroscopy, this organic showed concentrations of cybertronium on its exoskeleton!” Ratchet’s jaw dropped, and before Perceptor could react the medic snatched the container and tucked it in his subspace, folding into his alt mode and tearing out the room before the microscope could protest. Ratchet drove like a mech possessed, running his engine to the limits as he dodged other residents of the Ark.

Wheeljack only had a few orns left at best. His mind had been slipping as his frame continued to become more organic, gossamer wings on his backplates twitching as his near fully-grown extra limbs moved erratically. Wheeljack could barely recognize Ratchet anymore, reacting like an animal and climbing on the walls and ceiling. Ratchet had needed to stow away most of his work to prevent his conjux from accidentally destroying it in a fit of madness. He could barely force himself to go in there anymore, but he was compelled not to leave Wheeljack alone in his time of need.

Ratchet had done what he could, but even with all the cajoling and pleading in the world Wheeljack had stopped eating two days before. He didn’t have time to explain himself to the others, he needed to try this now or he would lose his other half. Slamming the door open, he didn’t bother to close it behind himself, looking around wildly for the other. His optics were half-wild in desperation, spark spinning quickly in his chassis.

Wheeljack was hidden in one of the more dimly-lit corners of the lab, curled up in a as tight of a ball as possible while ignoring the world around himself. Making his mind up, Ratchet grabbed the other, a desperate plea in his field as he used his superior medic strength to force the other up. Wheeljack reacted on instinct, leaving Ratchet no choice but to fight his struggling mate’s frightened kicking.

He’d dealt with this from enough of his patients, and easily wrestled the other into a better grip. Ratchet lifted the other, crooning reassurances as he gingerly keyed open the door to the chamber, forcing the other in before Wheeljack could fight him and slamming the door shut to get his bearings. Wheeljack slammed against the walls and door, buzzing and scratching at the glass as Ratchet closed his optics to gather his strength.

He’d seen this written down as a potential idea in Wheeljack’s notes. If they had the fly that had gotten stuck in the chamber with him and infected with his CNA, then the two could hopefully unscramble their atoms if they went through again. It had been scratched out, considering the fly he had gotten trapped with him had flown away, but if this was right, it had to be right, it could save him. Ratchet just needed to suck up the courage and put the fly in with his conjux. He didn’t habve time for doubt.

Ratchet could apologize later for this. Grabbing the container, he released the fly into the chamber with his other half before slamming the door shut again, locking the other in. Wheeljack began to slam against the door and make a noise that sounded as if it came from the Pit itself, clawed fingers catching on the glass. Ratchet kept his back to the other, steeling his nerves and going to the control panel. Slamming the sequence Wheeljack had written down in, he hesitated, servo shaking above the lever he would need to throw to activate the machine.

“Wheeljack, I’m sorry.” Grabbing the handle, he threw it with all his might, trying to block his audials out from the pained scream that erupted as a flash of light filled the room. Ratchet refused to turn around, couldn’t find it in his spark to move and see what he had done to the other. There were sickening squelching noises from the chamber, and Ratchet felt optical lubricant prick at his optics as his processor supplied horrific images of what he would turn around to find.

He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to confront the fact his conjux may have well died from this. He’d seen enough during this war, having to put nearly every mech on the Ark back together at least once. He’d dealt with enough loss and heartache, and for all his skills he didn’t want to think about the chances of failure from his actions. Wheeljack had understood in a way few other mecha did, and he was probably gone.

Giving in to the shuddering sobs, Ratchet startled as a heavy, familiar servo landed on his pauldron. Whipping around, Ratchet stared in shock at his mate’s frame. Besides a strange goo covering most of his plating, he looked exactly as he did before the ordeal, helm fins flashing happily as he drew the other into a tight hug that was smearing the goo everywhere.

Unable to stop the tears, Ratchet grabbed him close, fumbling in an attempt to plug his medical cables into the other’s plating and get a readout that could truly reassure him his conjux was alright. “Ratchet, Ratchet relax, I’m fine.” Hearing the other mech’s voice, Ratchet realized how much he missed it.

Pulling back, Ratchet grabbed him by the vocal indicators and pressed a searing kiss against the blast-mask, refusing to let him go even as Perceptor, Prime, and Red Alert gaped on in the doorway. Apparently speeding through the hallways like a bat out of hell was enough to rouse even the Prime’s concern. He would explain this to them all later, for now he needed to kiss his mate and reassure himself he was alright.

As a fly landed next to Ratchet’s pede he squashed it, pulling Wheeljack tighter against himself. He had all the time in the world now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and have a wonderful time of day!
> 
> EDITED THIS ON 1/23/2017 BECAUSE I FORGOT I HAD A REMINDER TO ADD: ROSALIND FRANKLIN DISCOVERED DNA, WATSON AND CRICK ARE DIPSHITS AND STOLE HER SHIT, THEY CAN EAT MY ENTIRE ASS SHE GAVE HER LIFE TO SCIENCE AND THEY FUCKED ROSALIND FRANKLIN OVER.
> 
> Shoutout to Rosalind Franklin, whose discoveries made this idea and the fanfiction possible! :D


End file.
